Angel of the Night
by Roxy Parkington
Summary: This is my attempt at Erik's thoughts during Chapter Twelve of the novel...and the conversation he overhears is not a pleasent one.


Angel of The Night

**Author's Note: **This one-shot is based on the novel, taking place during Chapter Twelve: Apollo's Lyre. I know some dialogue will be out of order, but I didn't realize it until I was halfway done. This story was written for Lisa, and I hope the rest of you enjoy it. Erik's my favorite character in the novel and I enjoy writing stories with him as the central character.

By the stars above, **what** do you see in him, Christine? Yes, he's handsome, wealthy, and all the other qualities you seek in normal men, but…did he teach you to sing? Was he the one who told you that we would astonish Paris…together? No, no, he's just a little boy in dress-up playing the knight in shining armor. You are his princess, the frail and delicate beauty meant to be saved from the monster. Am I the monster? I don't consider myself one, just a creative thinker set apart because of my physical appearance.

I am perched atop the Apollo statue, like a shadow above the two of you. I hear everything spill from your lips: my kidnapping of you and César, the trip to my lair in my boat, and the five days we spent together training your angelic voice. You speak in a hushed tone about singing the selection from **Othello**, how revengeful my voice sounded. Then you reach the part about reaching for my mask, and instinctively I touch it. I cannot draw my hand away as you continue talking about my rage and horrid ugliness. The young man beside you is appalled, and rightly so; I smirk with satisfaction at his expression. You continue your story in a hushed tone, as if you and your childhood friend are the only ones there. The person you're discussing…is me, the devil and angel as one!

"The man, still kneeling, must have known the cause of my tears, for he said, 'It is true, Christine! I am not a man, nor a genius, nor a ghost…I am Erik!'"

"Erik!" I whisper to myself, but the pair of you hear me and turn around. I quickly hide behind the statue, like a night bird, waiting as you continue on. Your little friend, that Raoul de Changy, looks slightly petrified, which is amusing to me. If only they all knew it was a mortal man, a man craving something as simple as acceptance, skulking around the Paris Opera House! No, no, that will never be; I favor my solitude and music above anything else.

No, that statement is not quite true, Christine. I favor my solitude, music, and you; your voice enraptures me as much as my music affects you. Oh, think of it, Christine! I want to be able to take walks with you on Sundays, kiss you again and again and take advantage of the pleasures of mankind that have been denied to me! Are men and women so fickle that they base everything on the outward appearance? I want to believe that with everything in my being, but as I look upon you and your…friend, I know that this is not to be. I listen intently to the rest of the conversation.

"I tell you that, if he does not hear me sing tomorrow, it will cause him infinite pain," you whisper. Oh, Christine, this conversation alone is more pain than never hearing your angelic voice again. Didn't that ring, my lessons, my pledges for love mean anything to you? Yet here you are, on the roof of the Paris Opera House, throwing it all away to your precious little knight. I stop listening until I hear this in the course of the hushed talk.

"Oh, I hate him!" your little knight exclaims through gritted teeth, no doubt. His tone turns softer, comforting, filling the role of the hero he is supposed to play. "And you, Christine…do you hate him, too?"

A silence fills the air, a silence that is so tangible I can feel it press against my skin. Then you answer softly, "No." My eyes, burning flashes in the dark, widen slightly. Can you still hold feelings for this repulsive angel of music that longs for your love? Even your hero thinks so, as evidenced by what he says next.

"No, why…you love him! Your fear, your terror, all of that is just love of the most exquisite kind, the kind people admit only to themselves. Picture it: a man who lives in a palace underground!" I smirk at his impersonation of my face, then continue listening.

"Then you want me to back there?" you ask incredulously. "Take care, Raoul; I shall never return!" My breath stops in my throat as a fire being quenched by a mighty ocean. So you don't love me, my dear Christine, it's your little knight that you care so deeply for! What more can he give you besides a nice home and a fortune? I, Christine, could give you the world if you willed it to be so! I could train you and we could dominate the opera stage!

The conversation between you and Raoul continues, and with each sentence a shred of my heart is falling away. Finally, like the little boy playing dress-up that he is, Raoul takes you in his arms and asks, "If Erik were good-looking, would you love me, Christine?"

"Oh, my betrothed of a day, if I did not love you I would not give you my lips! Take them, for the first time and the last!" The kiss between you and Raoul seems to last forever, and with it the first of my tears begin to fall. How could you, Christine? More importantly, **why** must you tear me apart like this?

I dare to look around the statue and the pair of you immediately take flight. I dare to remove my mask, if only for a second, to brush away my tears before putting it back on. My gaze surveys the ground and I spot a glint of gold; you dropped the wedding ring I gave you. I pick it up, place it on my own finger, and kiss it before returning to my lair. The phantom will strike again soon.

All I want is your undying love, Christine; is that too much to ask of you?


End file.
